


I See Fire, He Feels the Heat

by HallowedNight



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (Thorin is blind), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bilbo is basically way too accepting of random people showing up at his house, Blind Character, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Build, Young Frodo Baggins, Young Fíli and Kíli
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-10 15:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4397969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowedNight/pseuds/HallowedNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious Dwarf appears on Bilbo Baggins's doorstep during a blizzard seeking shelter from the storm. But as time wears on and circumstances change, the Hobbit finds that playing host to a son of Durin is much more difficult than it sounds.  </p><p>(Or, the Blind!Thorin + Young Fee and Kee AU no one asked for.) (I'm terrible at summaries. And tags, for that matter.)</p><p>((Rating/Characters/Tags may change in later chapters.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I started a new Hobbit fic. I shouldn't have. But...it just kind of...happened??? *mighty shrug*
> 
> Enjoy, I suppose~

Bilbo Baggins shivered and pulled his chair closer to the fire, sighing as he leaned his woolly Hobbit feet against the warm stone of the hearth. Winter had the Shire in its icy clutches; a mighty storm raged outside, wind howling around bare trees while snow piled against the windows and quaint, round doors, covering gardens and paddocks and paths alike. The snow cared not what it ravaged, how it choked all that was green and growing. Beauty could be found in all seasons, of course, by those who looked closely, but not even the most intricate of frost patterns could trump a Hobbit’s love of newly-budded flowers or the heady smell of ripe apples in autumn.

No, winter was not a Hobbit’s favorite season.

Still, it came every year, as it ought, and Bilbo, like all Hobbits, made the best of it. He read quite a bit, did a lot of cooking, and…well, that was about it, if he was completely honest, and in that there was no shame. Hobbit feet were tough as hobnails, but they simply didn’t agree with snow and ice. Besides, there was no reason to go outside, especially in such positively nasty weather. So it was with a clear conscience that Bilbo snuggled into his armchair and let his eyelids droop, his open book eventually slumping onto his chest as quiet snores filled the homely Hobbit-hole.

Bilbo woke with a start some time later to several loud bangs that reverberated through the air with echoing urgency. The forgotten book slid to the floor with a slap as Bilbo jumped to his feet and rushed to the front windows; as he suspected, a dark figure stood outside the door, hunched against the driving winds and snow. Night had fallen while Bilbo dozed and the fire had died down, throwing Bag End into a dim half-light that did the Hobbit no favors in identifying this mysterious – and insistent, Bilbo noted with some irritation as a great fist slammed against his poor door thrice more – stranger on his doorstep. It was against his morals to deny anyone hospitality, however, especially in such foul weather, so, perhaps against better judgement, Bilbo sighed heavily and pulled open the door.

Before he could speak, the figure hurried into the foyer, just barely regaining its balance as it tripped over the threshold. Bilbo promptly slammed the door shut behind him, for it was a him; a large, broad him draped in a heavy cloak and topped with a swath of snow-flecked black hair, dark as obsidian. He was far too stocky to be an Elf and too short to be a Man, and his face was most certainly not that of an Orc…so a Dwarf, then. He certainly fit the description, though Bilbo didn’t recall ever reading about Dwarves being so…lumpy.

“Um…good evening,” Bilbo said somewhat squeakily, tying his housecoat with a hasty flourish, his ears flushing ever so slightly at his current state of dress. Not that it really mattered; the Dwarf was staring down the hallway, apparently catching his breath as the snow slowly melted on his hair and mantle. Finally, he spoke, the deep tenor seeming to resonate through the very wood beneath their feet.

“I…apologize for barging in. I need only shelter for the night, if you will have me.”

“Of- Of course,” Bilbo stammered, a sudden suspicion dawning on him as he circled around the Dwarf, who’s eyes hadn’t moved from the hall’s end. His worries were confirmed as he finally looked upon the Dwarf’s face; his eyes, a hard, clear blue and bright as crystal, gazed sightlessly from a face lined with many woes. Bilbo’s heart sank, an aching knot of sympathy suddenly lodging itself in his breast. The Dwarf was blind, yet he stood unwavering as the mountains themselves, his jaw set resolutely.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” The Hobbit’s voice was small and unsure, and he winced despite himself. He could tell this was not a Dwarf to suffer pity. “I- Oh, I must stoke the fire…and- Well, would you like a cup or tea or- or some stew, I’m sure I have some left-”

“I’m fine, thank you, Master Baggins.” The Dwarf tilted his head slightly as though listening, then turned to face Bilbo, who had paused halfway to the sputtering fireplace. “A corner to lay out my bedroll is all I require.”

The Hobbit’s mouth fell open in a silent ‘O’ as the Dwarf spoke, but he soon overcame his surprise and began stoking the fire with his usual Hobbit-like vigor. “I’ll have no such thing! No guest of mine will be sleeping on the floor, no sir!” The fire crackled back to life, casting a warm glow over the Dwarf’s face. “I have plenty of rooms, all with warm beds ready for use. Ah ah!” The Dwarf’s mouth, which had opened to protest, judging by the sudden slant of its owner’s eyebrows, clamped shut once again as he nodded slowly.

“I am in your debt, then.”

Bilbo huffed and shrugged, then sighed once again before pattering off down the hallway to the largest guest bedroom. The Dwarf followed at a slower pace, apparently listening for his host’s footsteps. He occasionally made a strange clicking noise with his tongue; Bilbo made a note of it, though he didn’t have the nerve to ask.

“You owe me nothing. Rather, winter owes all of us a break from these confounded storms,” Bilbo muttered as he opened the bedroom door. Though he had placed a small coal-fed heater in each guest room that morning (as he did every morning; one never knew when one might have company), the room was much cooler than the main hall and den, though not uncomfortably so. It was dark as well, the candles on both the dresser and bedside table cold with lack of use. “I hope this will suit your needs. If, ah… Do you need…?”

The Dwarf strode by Bilbo and into the room as the Hobbit trailed off, clicking a few more times before turning back to the doorway. “I assure you, this is more than satisfactory. I am…very grateful.” Bilbo noted once again the Dwarf’s strange shape. His arms never appeared from beneath the cloak, and his front was just far too lumpy to be natural. He didn’t pry, however; the Dwarf probably just carried an armload of supplies or a pack of some sort.

“Well, I’m glad I can help, Mister…”

It was the Dwarf’s turn to grow pink around the ears as he drew himself up self-consciously. “I apologize; I seem to have forgotten my manners. I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of…” He trailed off, and his proud head tilted downward, bright eyes suddenly clouded with memory. “Well…it doesn’t matter.” He lifted his head again with apparent effort, exhaling heavily. “I will leave at first light, I do not wish to impose.”

Bilbo felt his lips quirking upwards against his will and silently wondered if all Dwarves were like this one. For some reason, he seriously doubted it. “Very well, Master Oakenshield. Though you must not feel rushed! I could hardly be called a good host if I hurried a guest out the door before he is ready.”

The Dwarf’s lips twitched, mirroring Bilbo’s small smile. “Thorin, please. I am no one’s master.”

Oh no, Bilbo thought; definitely not like most Dwarves. “Well then… Goodnight, Thorin.”

“Goodnight to you, Master Baggins, and thank you.”

Bilbo hummed his acceptance of the Dwarf’s thanks, berating his awkwardness as the guestroom door shut quietly. As if in a daze, he turned on his furry feet and marched back to the den, covering the hearth and preparing for bed with swift efficiency. Within minutes, he was tucked into bed and staring at the ceiling perplexedly.

“Well, that was certainly strange,” he mumbled to himself as his eyes slid shut for the second time that evening.

Bilbo woke late in the night to resounding silence; the blizzard had apparently calmed only momentarily, for when he rolled out of bed in the morning the wind and snow were accosting his home once again. The morning sunlight filtered dully through the snow as the Hobbit shucked off his pajamas and stepped into a fresh pair of trousers and a neatly pressed shirt, forgoing a waistcoat for the moment.

All at once, memories of the night previous flooded back to him, causing his brow to furrow severely mid-yawn. He briefly entertained the thought that the Dwarf had been a particularly vivid dream, brought about perhaps by a rotten bit of potato or this unnatural and thrice-cursed weather…

Shaking his head either in an attempt to clear it or a gesture of exasperation, Bilbo left his bedroom and shuffled to the kitchen. Deciding whether Thorin Oakenshield had been real or not could wait until after breakfast; besides, the Dwarf had said he was going to leave at first light, so, if he was real, he was probably already gone.

With this thought foremost in his mind, Bilbo started on a pot of tea, kindling both the kitchen and den fires with a practiced hand. He soon reclaimed his spot before the hearth in the den, a steaming mug clasped firmly in his chilled fingers. It would take a while for the fires to heat the rest of the-

The sound of a door opening down the hallway caused Bilbo, as buried as he was in his thoughts, to jump violently and nearly slosh tea all over his shirt; only his fast reflexes and his grandmother’s blessed saucer saved him from disaster.

So, the Dwarf was real after all.

Before the Hobbit could move from his armchair, Thorin stepped into view, and Bilbo’s eyes immediately widened to match his lucky saucer. The Dwarf’s cloak was gone, as was his stately manner of the previous night; he wore a simple, deep blue tunic and breeches and seemed worried. This barely registered to Bilbo, who was focused on the little guests he had been completely unaware he was housing. Two Dwarflings clung to Thorin’s tunic, one in the Dwarf’s arms and another peering shyly from behind his leg, golden hair mussed with sleep. The younger one, whose dark head rested beneath Thorin’s chin, coughed raggedly, his pudgy fist bunching in the cloth at the Dwarf’s neckline.

Thorin’s hand curled protectively around the little Dwarfling’s head; though his eyes weren’t focused in quite the right spot, Bilbo could see the barely-controlled fear pulling taught behind those crystalline orbs. “I know I said I would be gone by morning, but…Kíli is sick, and…I need your help, I beg of you-”

Bilbo, who had finally overcome his shock, straightened immediately, setting his now unimportant tea on the mantelpiece. “There is no need to beg, Thorin Oakenshield. I would never turn away a babe – or anyone for that matter – in need, you mark my words.” He approached the Dwarf with intentionally heavy footfalls, smiling wanly as three pairs of nearly identical blue eyes fixed on him. “Let us see what a little Hobbit care can do for this wee fellow.”

Thorin finally seemed to unwind with those words, his shoulders slumping with relief as he pressed a kiss to the Dwarfling’s downy head. “Thank you, Master Baggins,” he breathed.

Bilbo’s smile softened. “Of course.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((I hate this ending, but...that was the only place I could really stop it if I didn't want to add another 3000 words. I hope you enjoyed this rather bland beginning. o wo ))


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thanks to everyone who kudo'ed and commented on the first chapter, I didn't think this would be so popular! o wo I hope this (longer) chapter lives up to expectations~

As it turned out, the dark-haired Dwarfling wasn’t so sick that he would sit still for treatment. The little Dwarf wasn’t much larger than a Hobbit child, but he was decidedly more animated, chattering away through his coughing fits as soon as Bilbo plucked him from Thorin’s arms. His lips curling in an unbidden smile, the Hobbit deposited the Dwarfling on the table edge and sat in front of him, inwardly cursing the snow; he barely had enough light to read, let alone see down someone’s throat. Of course, it didn’t matter how much or how little light he had if he couldn’t get the youngster to _stay still_.

Sighing, Bilbo turned his attention back to Thorin, who was still hovering anxiously in the doorway. “Thorin? If you’d like to come hold this little one…and calm down, he’s not in any danger. Some sage and turmeric and that cough will clear up in no time.”

Bilbo’s smile widened at the Dwarf’s sheepish shrug. Ignoring protests from all parties involved, he swept the Dwarfling onto his hip and crossed the kitchen to pull Thorin into a chair, then plopped the child on his guardian’s lap.

“So, what are these little ones’ names, then?” Bilbo asked as he busied himself chopping dried herbs.

“This one,” Thorin replied gruffly, wrapping a thick arm around the wriggling, hacking child in his lap, “is Kíli, and his older brother is Fíli. They’re my sister’s sons.” He reached out in an attempt to pull Fíli back to his side, but the golden-haired Dwarfling dodged his uncle’s hand, which wasn’t particularly accurate in its aim anyway, and pattered over to Bilbo.

“Mister? Are you an Elf?”

Disregarding Thorin’s exasperated growl, Bilbo gazed down his nose at the little Dwarf. “Now, do I really look like an Elf to you?” he asked, settling his hands on his hips in a perfect imitation of his old grandmother.

Fíli seemed to wilt under the scrutiny, and his reply was much less confident than his initial question. “Well…you have pointy ears…”

Smiling widely, Bilbo finished with his herbs and threw them in a pot of water, then sat on the floor in front of his tiny interrogator. “For your information, Master Fíli, I am a Hobbit, and my name is Bilbo Baggins. Pointy ears do not an Elf make!” He held up a finger to punctuate his point. “I could shave your ears down to points, little Dwarf; would you be an Elf then?”

Fíli gasped and clapped his hands over his ears, but Kíli, who had finally managed to extricate himself from his uncle’s arms, wasn’t impressed. “You don’t scare us, Mister Boggins! We’re Dwarves, and we aren’t scared of anything, especially Hobbits and nasty, leaf-eatin’ Elfs!”

Thorin smiled proudly.

“Oh really?” Bilbo leaned closer to the Dwarflings, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. “I’ll agree that Elves aren’t scary, but Hobbits? You should be quaking!” He glanced around the kitchen, fighting the smile that kept trying to ruin his air of mystery. “Why, I once heard of a Hobbit that was trying to cook, but kept getting interrupted by two little troublemakers…and do you know what he did?”

“What?” Kíli breathed, his bravado now replaced with wide-eyed fright.

“He didn’t feed those children for an _entire week_.”

It was now Kíli’s turn to gasp in horror. Both Dwarves scrambled away, Fíli to the nearest chair and Kíli to his uncle’s lap. Even Thorin looked vaguely concerned as he turned to the sound of Bilbo putting the now herb-infused water over the fire.

“As it were,” said the Hobbit, bouncing up from his spot on the floor, “I’m starving. How does tomatoes and sausage sound? And maybe some bacon?”

Thorin winced as Kíli jumped to his feet, tiny heels digging into his uncle’s thighs as he wobbled around. “Yes please, Mister Boggins! And eggs! Do you have eggs?”

“Do I have eggs?” Bilbo snorted. “What a question! Of course I have eggs. Now, you little ones behave while I visit the pantry, or I’ll be forced to make breakfast and eat it all in front of you while you get nothing but a salad. Don’t test me!”

Both Fíli and Kíli nodded vigorously, fear of a few moments previous completely forgotten, while Thorin just shook his head.

Many questions, several frying pans, and a cup of herbal tea (unappreciated but tolerated by Kíli) later, Bilbo and his guests were tucking into a larger-than-anticipated breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, griddle cakes, and honey coated scones. For the first time that morning, both Dwarflings were completely silent, faces stuffed as they were, so Bilbo took the opportunity to get to know his guest.

“So…” Bilbo began, bringing his napkin to his face before he remembered that Thorin couldn’t actually see him talking with his mouth full. “How did you end up out here in such awful weather? And with two fauntlings – well, Dwarflings – at that?”

Thorin’s brow furrowed momentarily, but he quickly relaxed, apparently deciding that anger wasn’t worth the energy. “It’s a long story.”

Bilbo glanced out the window. “I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere any time soon,” he muttered, more than slightly resentful of the snow quickly burying his house.

“…I suppose,” Thorin relented, sighing his concurrence. “Long ago, my kin and I were chased from Erebor, our home of old, by the dragon Smaug.” He held up a hand suddenly, and Bilbo’s mouth closed with snap. “I can hear you take a deeper breath than usual before you ask a question, Master Baggins,” Thorin explained, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. Bilbo flushed immediately and turned his glare to Fíli and Kíli, who were both sniggering into their plates.

“Uncle Thorin may be blind, but he probably sees more than you, Mister Boggins,” Kíli chimed in, earning himself a cuff on the ear from said uncle.

“Anyway,” Thorin continued emphatically, “after…many misadventures, you might say, we made a home in the Blue Mountains to the west. That is where I lived for many years in relative peace; however, a recent…insurgence forced me to leave.”

Bilbo waited for a moment, then frowned when the Dwarf failed to elaborate. “Is that it? That can’t be it. What happened? I- If you don’t mind asking, of course.”

Thorin didn’t bother to hide the roll of his lustrous eyes. Bilbo huffed indignantly and crossed his arms, a link of sausage waggling on the fork still balanced between his fingers. “I certainly don’t mean any offense, Master Oakenshield, but seeing as you’re in _my_ home…” The Hobbit trailed off pointedly, taking grim satisfaction in Thorin’s abruptly abashed expression.

“I apologize,” the Dwarf grumbled after a moment. “Of course, you’re right.”

Bilbo nodded to himself at this pronouncement, blazing eyes calming for the moment. “That I am,” he added. Thorin’s eyebrow rose slightly, but he didn’t comment, choosing instead to continue his story.

“After sixty years of exile, talk began to spread through my people. Some wished to send a force to reclaim Erebor, while others believed that such an attempt would be suicide. Discussions became heated, and everyone began to take sides; some families even split over the issue. Eventually, it worked its way into our politics. Both sides began pressuring our, erm, leader to choose a side, but he would not. Soon, rumors about him started circulating, asserting he was a coward or unfit to rule…the accusations went on and on.” Thorin sighed heavily, his breakfast forgotten. Bilbo was completely enraptured; it was as though one of his books was unfolding right in front of him, unaccustomed as he was to such drama in his peaceful little home.

“And your family…was split on the issue?” he asked what he hoped was delicately.

Thorin smiled humorlessly. “Not exactly.”

It took a moment, but Bilbo’s mouth soon fell open. “You…you’re their leader!”

The Dwarf bowed his head. “Aye,” he said quietly, “I was. My people turned on me, asserting I was addled as well as blind. I just…I can’t take a side. I wish to take back my childhood home more than any, but my grandfather died attempting to reclaim the Dwarf-realm of Khazad-dûm; our ancient holds and treasures are the curse of my line, driving us to madness, to kill and be killed. My brother and sister, her sons, my family and friends and their children…I can’t put them all in danger to sate my own lust for land and gold. My sister Dís believed the same as I, and bade me take her boys and leave, before the unrest turned to open war. She knows our people, knows the destructive passion from which I am not exempt, and I am not the warrior I once was.”

Thorin exhaled slowly, and Bilbo could see the swirls of conflict and fear and anger and resignation battling behind the Dwarf’s crystal-blue eyes.

“I… I’m so sorry.” The Hobbit was at a loss for words; he had been prepared for many explanations for his guest’s wandering, but this was most certainly not on the list.

“Do not apologize, Master Baggins. My burdens are not yours. Dís agreed to send me a raven when it was safe to return to my home, so until then, my only task is to keep my nephews safe.”

Bilbo glanced over at said Dwarflings, who had long since finished their breakfast and were watching their uncle with wide eyes. They were so young, torn unjustly from their mother and home, forced to brave the elements in the middle of winter… It was despicable, and he simply wouldn’t stand for it.

“Well, that’s settled then!” The Hobbit slapped his hands together with finality, hopping from his chair to begin clearing the breakfast dishes. “You will all just have to stay here.” Thorin opened his mouth, probably to protest, but Bilbo carried on the day’s tradition of interrupting and promptly shushed him. “I will not leave two little children out to wander in the middle of winter, Thorin Oakenshield, and neither will you. This house always feels too empty in the winter anyway.”

Both Fíli and Kíli’s faces lit up as they sprang from their seats to crowd the Hobbit. “Really? We don’t have to go back out there?”

“Not that it’s that bad…”

“I mean, yeah, we’re Dwarves after all, we’re tough enough-”

“But Uncle always complains about his joints-”

“Alright, you little heathens,” Thorin butted in, “that’s quite enough.” He joined Bilbo at the wash basin, his large hand groping for a moment before it found the Hobbit’s shoulder. “I can’t thank you enough, truly… If I can help in any way, I shall.”

Bilbo smiled down at the dishes, his eyebrow quirking slightly. “I’ll take you up on that; once I’ve got these finished, you can help me clean up your nephews. I shudder to think when they bathed last.”

Thorin’s face crumpled into an expression of long-suffering dismay. “Well, we’ll need all the help we can get,” he mumbled dryly. “Getting those two clean is like trying to bathe an oil-slick cat. It used to take Frerin, Dís, and myself hours to wear them down to the point of cooperation.”

“Well, they’ve never had to deal with a Hobbit before. We’ll see how difficult they are.” Bilbo picked absentmindedly at a bit of dried tomato on the plate he was scrubbing, his smile fading slowly as he glanced over at Thoirn. “Frerin and Dís are your siblings?” he asked quietly, and, to his relief, Thorin’s face broke into a fond smile.

“Yes, both younger than me and twice as stubborn. Dís’s husband died when Fíli was very small, so the three of us ended up raising them together.” His expression turned wistful. “I miss them, especially Frerin. Dís and I didn’t always see eye to eye, though I love her more than all the jewels beneath the earth. When I- After I was blinded, Frerin helped me. He was always by my side, and to be parted hurts more than I imagined. Family, blood or bonded, is everything to Dwarves.”

Bilbo had since finished the dishes and was watching Thorin intently. It was strange to think that the Dwarf couldn’t see his obvious ogling; being a Hobbit who prided himself on his manners, Bilbo knew he shouldn’t stare, but he simply couldn’t pass up on the opportunity. Though he loved the Shire and his homey Hobbit-hole, Bilbo often felt a tug in his breast, seeming to call him into the wilds, away over the plains and rivers and frozen mountains, and Thorin’s very presence seemed to recall that wanderlust.

“Hobbits also value family over all else,” Bilbo responded quietly. “Though I have no siblings, I can imagine you lament being parted from yours.” Thorin just nodded, giving Bilbo a free moment to consider how to word his next inquiry. “If you don’t mind me asking…and I can understand entirely if you don’t want to discuss it, but…you said blinded, so…were you not born unseeing?”

“You needn’t tread on eggshells, Master Baggins,” Thorin replied wryly. “I have long since come to terms with my situation. And you are correct, I wasn’t born blind. After our home at Erebor was taken, we tried to retake the ancient stronghold of Khazad-dûm and failed. After the battle, bleeding, broken, and grieving, we were forced to camp near the battlefield, close enough that a party of scavenging goblins saw fit to attack us during the night. I took down their leader, but got a face-full of poison for my troubles.”

Bilbo almost apologized again but held his tongue, unsure of what to say to someone who had lost so much. Thorin it seemed didn’t need to hear anything, however, as he simply shrugged and pushed away from the wall he had been reclining against. “That was sixty years ago now. I’ve gotten used to it, and Fíli and Kíli help me now that I don’t have Frerin. But enough of my rambling; you mentioned a bath…?”

“That I did!” Bilbo affirmed, half-relieved, half-disappointed that story time appeared to be over. Thorin’s voice was mesmerizing, honest, heartfelt, and demanded an audience, and Bilbo found that he rather enjoyed that role.

Shaking his head, the Hobbit took a moment to breathe and gather his thoughts, then turned to the Dwarf. “Alright, you round up the little ones while I start heating the water. It shouldn’t take long.” Thorin nodded and reached for the wall, following its curve into the parlor to begin the search for the impish Dwarflings. Bilbo tried not to think about what they may have gotten into; he hadn’t heard anything break, so they were probably fine.

The small wash closet was cool when Bilbo first entered, but warmed quickly as he lit the fire to begin heating the winter-chilled water. Though he would normally wait for the flames to die down to coals (it was safer that way), he forewent the extra time when he heard two despondent groans from a few rooms away.

“Not happy, are they?” the Hobbit remarked when Thorin appeared outside the wash closet, a whiny Dwarfling slung over each shoulder. The Dwarf grunted an affirmative, though it wasn’t strictly necessary. “Well, put them down here. I bet I can straighten them out.”

Thorin looked skeptical but did as he was told, eyebrows creeping toward his dark hairline as the listened to the whispered conversation between his nephews and host. Years of relying on his touch and hearing had sharpened the senses, so he couldn’t help overhearing a word or two (and quirking a smile as he worked out Bilbo’s tactic for keeping the little ones quiet). Offering a reward afterward had never worked for them back in the Blue Mountains, but, to Thorin’s surprise, the griping instantly quieted, to be replaced by the sound of two Dwarflings stripping as fast as they could and clambering into the tub.

“I told you, Thorin,” Bilbo said, the smile evident in his voice as he joined the Dwarf in the hallway. “You just have to know how to talk to them. Kíli! Let go of your brother’s hair!”

An embarrassed ‘sorry, Mister Boggins’ drifted from the wash closet. Thorin hid his laugh behind his hand.

“So this is the fabled magic of Hobbits, then?” he asked, voice rich with amusement.

Bilbo scoffed and crossed his arms, watching his new little residents contentedly. “Oh, I don’t know about magic. We’re just lucky, I think.”

Thorin sighed, smiling as a loud squeal reverberated off the metal tub and Bilbo dove in to break up whatever spat had broken out between the brothers.

“Lucky indeed…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Frerin is alive in this story 'cause I love him too much. Also, this timeline is probably going to be completely screwed up in relation to the actual storyline of LotR and the Hobbit, so... *mighty shrug* I have too much I wanna do with it. :p
> 
> I'll try to reply to comments now, especially longer ones, but I have such a terrible memory... o wo And thank you once again to anyone that leaves kudos or comments! :D It's really great to hear feedback~ ))


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, another update~ There's not much angst or anything at this point, though there probably will be some in the future...but for now have some awkward dweebs and some cute Dwarflings.
> 
> Also, thank you thank you thank you to everyone who has left kudos and commented! It's great to see that people are enjoying the story~ I hope y'all like this new chapter!

Much to Thorin’s surprise, the hardest part of bath time was not the bath itself, but finding suitable clothes for the pair of Dwarflings after the fact. Apparently, the sets Thorin fished up from the dredges of his pack weren’t clean enough for Bilbo, as the Hobbit snatched them all away muttering about smelly Dwarves and neglect for laundry duty. Thorin didn’t bother to point out that, as a fugitive, laundry wasn’t exactly high on his list of priorities.

“Well, I suppose these will have to do,” Bilbo mused as he rejoined Thorin in the guest room. “They’ll be a bit big, but it’s just until their clothes dry over the fire. It shouldn’t take long.”

Thorin nodded, feeling his way into an armchair nestled in a corner of the room. “Hobbit clothes, I imagine?”

“That’s correct,” the Hobbit huffed. “Just shirts, I’m afraid, from when I was smaller. The sleeves will be too long, but that can be managed.” The sound of a brief scuffle followed this statement, punctuated by the rustling of crisp fabric and a decidedly familiar whine. “Oh hush,” Bilbo admonished the now dressed Kíli. “It’s not so bad. Now help me catch your brother so we can get started on luncheon.”

“Lunch already?” Thorin questioned once Kíli’s delighted giggles had died down and Fíli had been wrestled into submission (and clothing). In the silence that followed, the Dwarf could all but feel the Hobbit’s incredulous stare. “What? Have I offended?”

He felt rather than heard Bilbo’s heavy sigh. “No, you haven’t offended me. But we’ve already missed second breakfast and elevensies, so it is most certainly time for lunch. Or will be, when I’ve finished making it. Come on then, little ones! I’ll brew you some more tea, Kíli.”

Kíli groaned yet again, but the effect was ruined, and Bilbo’s point proven, when the complaint trailed off into a wet cough. Thorin grimaced and stood to trail the Hobbit back to the kitchen, plucking Kíli deftly from the floor and onto his hip as he passed.

“I’m fine, Uncle,” the little Dwarf protested, but slung his arms around Thorin’s neck nonetheless. Biting back a smile, Thorin gave his nephew a light squeeze and released him into the kitchen, where Fíli was once again quizzing their host.

“So Hobbits have more than three meals?”

“That we do! Six of them, actually; when we can get them, that is. Breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, luncheon, afternoon tea, and dinner, or supper, if you prefer.” Bilbo, who was busy chopping vegetables into a large copper pot, smiled at Fíli and Kíli’s excited exclamations. He glanced up when Thorin entered the kitchen. “I promised your nephews shepherd’s pie for dinner, so we shall have to make due with bread and cheese for lunch, if that’s acceptable.”

“Of course,” Thorin replied, his heart sinking momentarily. “But…the food supplies, erm…we tend to eat a lot-”

Bilbo caught on quickly and cut the Dwarf off with a bright laugh. “Oh, my dear Dwarf! My pantry could keep a family of eight comfortably full for a year, I’m not worried about feeding three Dwarves for the winter. You needn’t fret.”

Thorin blinked. “Oh.”

“Oh indeed,” Bilbo chuckled. “You’re lucky you’re here in winter. The meats keep much longer in the cold.”

“But-”

“Do you know how to use a wash closet, Thorin?”

The Dwarf tilted his head, rather taken aback by this drastic change of subject. “I- Well, yes.”

“And could you manage to get a bath up and running on your own?” Bilbo continued, his tone inscrutable.

“Of course,” Thorin replied, squaring his shoulders indignantly. “I may be blind, but I am far from helpless.”

“Well, good!” The Hobbit said brightly, smile evident in his voice. “I suggest you go make use of that fact, then. Fíli and Kíli aren’t the only Dwarves in his house who need to bathe occasionally.” Thorin stood in bemused silence for a moment too long, so Bilbo continued issuing orders. “And bring me your clothes, so I can wash them.”

“I hardly think-”

“Now, Thorin, if these two lovely little Dwarflings can bathe like gentlefolk, then so can you. Don’t set a bad example!” Bilbo was obviously enjoying himself, and it was that more than the actual suggestion that incited Thorin obstinacy, but he couldn’t deny that a hot bath did sound enjoyable…

“Oh, fine,” he finally growled before stomping off to gather his travel-worn clothes.

“Towels are in the cupboard!” Bilbo called cheerfully after him.

After depositing his clothes beside the wash closet and finding said towels, Thorin set to work filling the tub. It took longer than he would have liked to map the little room and locate the water spout and heating pot, and not for the first time since his imposed exile did he yearn for his brother’s helpful hand and positive attitude. Frerin never tiptoed around Thorin supposed disability and never failed to cheer his older brother when Thorin was despondent or irate.

Perhaps, Thorin thought as he finally sank into the deep, steaming water, that was why he felt so…comfortable around Bilbo Baggins. Though the Hobbit had been ill at ease at first, he now seemed quite over his initial shock at taking in a sightless old Dwarf and his nephews. In fact, Bilbo had become more relaxed around Thorin and his blindness in half a day than most of his own kin were after sixty years. This was refreshing to say the least, and couldn’t have come at a better time; though Thorin no longer held any animosity towards his situation and had learned to cope with and even use his blindness to his advantage, weeks on the road with nothing but his intuition and two young Dwarflings to guide him had begun to wear on his nerves.

Pushing these thoughts aside, Thorin took several deep breaths, forcing himself (with some effort) to relax. He felt oddly frayed, unused to the welcoming peace that hung over Bag End and its solitary occupant. But his nephews were safe and warm and so was he, and he was immensely grateful for the opportunity to rest and unwind.

Smiling to himself, the Dwarf ducked under the water, lying still for a moment as the world dulled around him. The water plugged his keen ears and enveloped him in heavy, warm silence, lapping away the tension held in his shoulders and back. He felt everything so acutely that it was almost suffocating at times; he could read people without seeing them, constantly felt their intentions like coils of heat reaching out to him. Other folk didn’t seem to notice how intensely their emotions radiated, a constant, heady tincture that clogged Thorin’s mind and soured his mood. Here in Bag End, however, the cloud was light and cheery, and for the first time in many years, Thorin felt he could afford to let down his carefully-constructed defenses.

Several more minutes underwater (Dwarves were renowned for their ability to hold their breath) released the last of the knots in Thorin’s sore muscles, and he broke the surface of the water with a gentle splash and a deep, satisfied inhale. Recalling his earlier investigation of the wash closet, he groped around to his right until his hand landed on a bar of sweet-smelling soap that he promptly put to use, scrubbing away the last vestiges of the road from his hair and limbs. His fingers lingered for a moment at his temples, missing the thick braids that usually hung there. He hadn’t worn them since he left the Blue Mountains, silently fearful that someone might recognize the symbols on his carven hair-beads. Perhaps he would put them back in later.

When he was properly clean and the water began to cool, Thorin pushed himself out of the tub, feeling better than he had in weeks. His thoughts had drifted to construction, flitting around the idea of how he might augment Bilbo’s plumbing with a more efficient water heater… It wasn’t until he had tousled his hair partially dry and toweled off the rest of his body that he remembered that all his clothes were probably soaked or still unwashed. He pondered this for a moment, but eventually decided that he couldn’t just wait around in the wash closet all afternoon. It had probably been close to an hour already.

Once this was settled, Thorin drained the tub and exited the wash closet, holding a fluffy towel around his waist as he ambled contentedly back to the kitchen, one hand on the sloped wall to guide him.

“I thank you for your hospit-” he began, but was almost immediately interrupted by a scandalized exclamation from his host.

“Oh! Oh, you’re not- You’re not wearing anything,” Bilbo blustered, apparently stubbing his toe in his haste to rise from his seat, if the solid thud and muttered curses were anything to go by. Thorin smiled wryly, settling his weight over one hip.

“Well, my clothes are wet. And I’m wearing a towel,” he pointed out.

“That- That’s very true, and your clothes are currently drying in the spare room… Oh, I hadn’t even thought of that, um…” Thorin listened amusedly, one eyebrow inching towards his hairline as Bilbo pattered around the kitchen, far more flustered by the Dwarf’s nakedness than Thorin himself. “Here, I’ll- Let me just… Oh, I’ve made a total arse of myself, haven’t I?”

Thorin laughed out loud at this, the rich baritone apparently acting as a beacon for his little nephews, who came barreling into the kitchen to latch onto their uncle’s legs. Still chuckling, Thorin scooped up the little Dwarflings and spun them round, both shouting happily, the forgotten towel falling into a heap about his feet.

“Oh, heavens! Oh, by Aulë’s blessed _pants_...”

Bilbo’s near-panicked squeaks and hasty retreat into the parlor only served to augment the Dwarf’s mirth; he eventually had to plop Fíli and Kíli back onto their own feet and lean against the nearest wall, nearly wheezing.

“Oh, Durin’s beard…” he choked out as he heard Bilbo return to the kitchen. “I haven’t laughed such since was a Dwarfling myself.”

“I’m glad you find the situation amusing, Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilbo retorted, throwing what felt like a heavy blanket over Thorin’s head. “Please, just cover yourself, good gracious… Are all Dwarves so…so indecent?”

A wide grin remained plastered on Thorin’s face as he slung the blanket about his shoulders. “We see no need for such modesty. Our bathing rooms are generally communal, and we are proud of our bodies. Our Maker forms each of us in His image, fashions us with care; who are we to hide His craftsmanship?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Bilbo muttered, apparently still shaken by the whole ordeal. Thorin was unaffected.

“Have I missed lunch?” he asked, bunching the blanket around his middle as he felt his way to a chair.

Bilbo snorted. “What do you think? It’s nearly one-thirty, so you’ll just have to go hungry! Afternoon tea will be at four, and I have the filling for the shepherd’s pie simmering at the moment. I’ll peel and boil the potatoes after tea, so dinner will be around seven o’clock.”

“Are all Hobbits so ruthlessly organized?” Thorin replied smugly. The atmosphere darkened as Bilbo bristled, and the Dwarf held up a placating hand. “Calm yourself, Master Baggins, I speak only in jest!”

The Hobbit relaxed reluctantly, eyeing Thorin with half-fond suspicion. “You’ll find that joking about food around Hobbits can prove decidedly dangerous. We’re deadly serious about our cooking.” The last of the tension in the room drained easily away as Bilbo sighed. “Come, let us sit by the parlor fire. I have a challenge for our little friends here.”

Thorin’s lips twitched as Fíli and Kíli both charged into the parlor, Bilbo trailing them more sedately.

“Give us anything, Mister Boggins!”

“Yeah, we’ll fight a whole army, we’re not afraid!”

“Oh, but this is a challenge of the mind,” Bilbo corrected. “But if you can complete it, I’ll whip up a batch of raspberry muffins for this evening. How does that sound?”

Thorin smiled and followed his nephews’ cries of agreement to the parlor, holding up his blanket so as not to trip.

“Here. These little puzzles were given to me when I was a lad, and I loved figuring them out. Finish one each, and you’ll have your muffins. But be warned! I often had to ask for help. Let’s see if you two are smarter than me!” Bilbo explained as he and Thorin settled into adjacent chairs almost simultaneously, the two Dwarflings spread out in front of the fire along with several intricate, wooden puzzles. Thorin was quietly impressed with the Hobbit’s tactic; the little games would likely keep the little brothers occupied for quite a while.

In the meantime, Thorin and his host discussed many things, occasionally dozing in amiable silence until a screech from their feet jarred them back to the waking world. By the time Bilbo stood to prepare afternoon tea, Fíli had managed to complete one puzzle on his own, much to Kíli’s chagrin. He refused his older brother’s help, however, insisting that he could pull his own weight and didn’t need any assistance, _thank you_.The golden-haired Dwarfling had eventually agreed and was now reclining against his uncle’s legs, half-asleep and sporadically twitching in fleeting dreams.

Afternoon tea was served on a rickety end table set between Bilbo and Thorin’s chairs.

“Kíli, it’s time for your herbals,” Bilbo stated in a voice that brooked no argument, handing the little Dwarf a small mug and ignoring his protests. Fíli ended up silencing his brother with a mumbled ultimatum:

“If you don’t drink it then you’ll start coughing and won’t finish your puzzle, and Mister Bilbo will make muffins for me and you won’t get any.”

Kíli growled in response and grasped the mug, slurping the hot tea with a vengeance. Bilbo shook his head, eyes twinkling as he glanced over at Thorin.

“You look ridiculous,” he pointed out with a snort, hiding his laugh with his own cup of tea. The Dwarf thought about it for a moment, then assented with a soft grunt and a smile. He supposed the Hobbit must be correct, dressed as he was with his head sticking out of a blanket that covered all but his toes.

“Either way,” Thorin replied, “I think I’m enjoying Hobbit life. Is this what you do all winter?”

“Mostly.” Bilbo turned his gaze to the flickering fire, sipping his tea contentedly as a sleepy silence descended over the room. This easy quiet remained unbroken until Kíli shrieked and thrust a finished puzzle over his head, waking everyone with his cries of success. Bilbo clapped happily.

“Excellent! I was looking forward to those muffins. Now, both you Dwarflings come with me; it’s about time we started dinner.” Fíli, who was now wide awake, and Kíli, beaming from ear to ear, both shot into the kitchen, eager to help, if only to speed up the process. Thorin remained in his chair, occasionally offering a line of conversation before falling back into his thoughtful silence. He was unused to being so idle but was truly bereft of all responsibility in this place and, if he was entirely honest, he rather liked it.

Dinner was an extravagant affair; apparently where Hobbits were concerned, shepherd’s pie meant an entire table of savory dishes followed by scones, buttered biscuits, and honeyed crisps as well as the promised raspberry muffins. Everything was delicious, and Thorin was full and pleasantly drowsy by the time the last dish was clean. Fíli and Kíli shared his food-induced lethargy, and they were both curled up asleep in front of the parlor fire by the time Bilbo and Thorin left the kitchen. In fact, the little Dwarflings were so tired that they slept right through being toted from the parlor back to the guest room without so much as batting an eyelash.

Once the little ones were tucked in, the older folk decided a smoke was in order, and settled into their now accustomed chairs with their pipes.

“Here, try this.” Bilbo tossed a pouch of leaf over to Thorin, whose blanket was bunched around his waist to allow his arms room to maneuver. “Longbottom Leaf. Finest weed in the South Farthing.” The Dwarf nodded this thanks, one hand absentmindedly ghosting over the skin before his ear.

“Is that…does that hurt?” Bilbo asked hesitantly after surreptitiously watching his guest play with the spot for several minutes.

“Hmm? Oh, no,” Thorin responded after a short pause, only just noticing what had become habit by now. “I usually have braids just before my ears. I suppose I’m so used to them that my fingers forget their absence.”

“You removed them to bathe?”

“No, they’ve been out since I left the Blue Mountains. The clasps denote my rank, and I did not wish to be so easily identified.”

Bilbo watched the dwindling fire, mulling this over for a moment. “Well, why not put them back in? I can assure you, no one in the Shire cares about or would even recognize your rank. And you would stop messing with that spot. You’re going to rub a hole all the way to your brain at that rate.”

“Well…yes, I probably will do that, though I’ve never been the best at taming my hair. My sister usually helped back home,” Thorin replied warily. Bilbo didn’t catch the Dwarf’s subtle concern and plowed on.

“That’s no trouble, I’m sure I could manage. I have deft fingers, you know. Most Hobbits do.” He smiled at Thorin, straightening up in his chair. “I’d very much like to see what they look like! Where are these clasps you spoke of?”

“In the front pocket of my pack-”

With that, Bilbo was gone, sneaking noiselessly towards the guest room before the Dwarf could blink. “Great Mahal’s balls…” he muttered, his fingers twisting in the fabric at his waist. He could have brushed all this off, said he would be fine, told Bilbo that touching a Dwarf’s hair or beard was a hugely intimate thing…but he hadn’t. For whatever ridiculous reason, Thorin found he had a hard time saying no to the Hobbit, which didn’t bode well for his future. Sighing deeply, he willed himself to relax. It wasn’t as if Bilbo knew the gravity of what he was suggesting. He was just curious and helpful; any deep meaning was all Thorin’s making, and he could ignore tradition just this once…

The Dwarf’s internal battle halted in an abrupt stalemate as Bilbo reentered the room, oblivious to his guest’s conflict. “Right you were! Not hard to find at all. I left the rings and whatnot where they were, so don’t you worry about that.”

Thorin nodded, swallowing thickly as he felt Bilbo approach his chair.

“Well, pull out the bits you want braided then. I’d probably take the wrong parts and foul everything up.”

“I’m sure you’d be fine,” Thorin murmured, then mentally reprimanded himself. Why was he encouraging this? His sister would be appalled. Probably. Regardless, he reached up to separate the familiar strands, fighting to keep his fingers steady as the obsidian locks fell to frame his face. His heart hammered in his ears, resolutely, if predictably, ignoring his attempts to calm it.

“Now, this shouldn’t take too long… I always loved braiding little flowers and whatnot into the fauntlings’ hair in the spring…”

Thorin allowed his eyes to slide shut as Bilbo chattered on; the Hobbit’s nimble fingers were gentle yet firm, applying just enough tension for the braid to keep its shape while still remaining comfortably slack. The feeling of hands in his hair, usually associated with family and his sister’s fond chiding, was suddenly alien, but most certainly not unpleasant. It took a few minutes, but Thorin eventually relaxed into the touches, his heart jumping only when Bilbo’s fingers brushed his ear or cheek.

“Finished!” Bilbo exclaimed as he snapped the second bead in place and stepped back to survey his handiwork. “I suppose they’ll do. How do they feel?”

His hands trembling ever so slightly, Thorin inspected the familiar braids, genuinely pleased to have the slight weight back in front of his ears. “They’re…they’re perfect,” he managed, smiling up at the Hobbit, who was hovering before the fire.

“Good! I’m sure they’re glad to be back. They suit you.”

Thorin laughed quietly. “I’m glad to have them back. I- Thank you, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo settled back into his armchair, relighting his pipe with a content hum. “You’re quite welcome, Thorin Oakenshield.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Thorin's POV is really hard, I hope he's not horribly out of character. He is in a bit of a weird situation. I expect he'll be more brooding if he's ever around more Dwarves. c: ))


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Before we start, a quick announcement; I now have a [fantasy/Middle Earth Tumblr](http://dwarvenhistoric.tumblr.com/)! So come join me there for all sorts of fun stuff. (And lots of gay Dwarves.)
> 
> Anyway: Oh my god, this chapter...I couldn't even proofread it, so please pardon any mistakes or just plain badness. It's just... Well, I don't know. Let's just say the angst begins.
> 
> EDIT: Oh wow, that was terrible. I read through it and fixed a lot of things, so I feel better about it now. c:

The next morning dawned cold and cloudy, but the blizzard had blown by during the night, leaving Hobbiton buried under several feet of wet snow. Bilbo woke in high spirits regardless, pleased that he could actually see out his windows for the first time in several days. Today would be a busy day of shoveling and sweeping, but the little Hobbit was quite looking forward to it, especially after being stuck inside for so long.

Bilbo began the day with a quick inventory of the pantry, mentally mapping his meals as he did nearly every morning; breakfast, second breakfast, and elevensies would be fairly straightforward, so he could worry about the rest later. Besides, his guests, especially the younglings, would probably want some say in the menu. This decided, Bilbo trotted off to the back room to retrieve the Dwarves’ clean and (finally) dry clothes, which he folded neatly and placed outside the guest room door. A nagging feeling told him that the Dwarflings wouldn’t stand to spend all day indoors, so next on the agenda was finding extra layers for the little things.

It took several minutes of rummaging through old chests, but Bilbo eventually managed to unearth two pairs of knitted mittens and well-kept woolen caps, wondering all the while what the young Dwarves, and Thorin for that matter, had been wearing during their snowy trek from the Blue Mountains. They must be hardier than Hobbits, he eventually decided; even the thick cloak Thorin had been wearing when he arrived wouldn’t keep a Hobbit warm for long in such awful weather. And having little ones out in that without hats or mittens…what a terrible business.

Setting the hats and mittens aside, Bilbo trundled back to the kitchen to set out breakfast. He didn’t feel much like cooking that particular morning, so he was already tucking into a plate of warmed scones, thick cut toast, jam, and hot tea by the time Thorin and his nephews made their sleepy way to the kitchen. Fíli and Kíli were back in their regular clothes, tiny tunics of deep teal over brown trousers, their bare feet pattering quietly on the stone floor tiles as they ran over to cling to Bilbo’s legs.

“Have you made breakfast, Mister Boggins?”

“Do we get some? Pleeeaase?”

Bilbo chuckled and patted the tabletop. “Sit in a chair like nice gentledwarves and you’ll get some breakfast. And you, Master Kíli, get another dose of herbals.”

Once both younglings were happily munching on their scones and toast, the Hobbit turned his attention to Thorin, who was leaning comfortably against the kitchen doorframe. He was dressed similarly to his nephews in a deep blue, belted tunic and brown breeches, though he had elected, most likely because of the cold floors, to put on boots as well. The neck of his tunic wasn’t laced, which was slightly annoying in Bilbo’s opinion, but…he supposed he could let it slide. He wasn’t Thorin’s keeper, after all.

Bilbo's gaze lingered on the braids that fell on either side of the Dwarf’s face, excellently framing the strong features. They had held up surpsisingly well during the night, speaking to either Bilbo’s braiding abilities, or Thorin’s tendencies to sleep just like his beloved mountains: deeply and completely unmoving. He looked well rested, for which the Hobbit was thankful. Thorin had looked terrible his first night in Bag End, and he deserved some good nights’ sleep after everything he had dealt with in the past few months.

“Good morning, Master Baggins,” Thorin greeted, his rich voice laced with quiet amusement. Bilbo’s lips twitched.

“Good morning, Thorin. You may call me Bilbo, if you’d like, there’s really no need for formalities.”

The Dwarf inclined his head, waiting a moment before feeling his way into a chair and helping himself to a scone. Bilbo smiled, glad that his guests were getting comfortable. Aulë only knew why Bilbo had warmed to these Dwarves so quickly, but he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed having them around. They made his life interesting, especially in winter when he would normally be sitting in front of the fire like a bump on a log for days on end. Maybe he wouldn’t get so flabby this winter, with two Dwarflings to chase after.

As if on cue, said Dwarflings, full and wide awake, bounced down from their chairs to crowd the Hobbit once again, chattering over each other for a moment as they each fought for the upper hand in the conversation. Fíli eventually won, tugging on Bilbo’s trousers as he asked, “What are we doing today, Mister Bilbo?”

Bilbo rested his hands on his hips and smiled down at the little Dwarf. “Well, I’ll be shoveling the front walk and clearing the benches, but you lot will be in here doing dishes!” This announcement produced exactly the result Bilbo had been expecting; the two Dwarflings immediately started whining, wringing their little hands as they begged Bilbo to let them go outside.

“Please, Mister Bilbo?” Fíli moaned, throwing the Hobbit the most pitiful expression of longing he could manage. “We’ll sweep the whole house, honest!”

“Yeah! We’ll shovel and sweep and everything, just watch!” Kíli joined in, clinging to Bilbo’s leg as he mirrored his brother’s pleading eyes.

Bilbo sighed dramatically, shaking his head as he bit back yet another smile. “Oh, fine then, I suppose. But you’ll have to get all bundled up, or the snow will bite your toes right off!”

Fíli and Kíli agreed immediately and sped off without any further prompting, leaving Thorin and Bilbo behind in the kitchen, both giggling stupidly.

“Your nephews are certainly something,” Bilbo chuckled, flopping into the chair opposite Thorin and propping his head in his hands. “There’s no way they’ll be able to shovel that walk, the snow is probably over their heads.”

Thorin turned his eyes towards the heavens, futilely trying to will his smile away. “Oh, but they’ll try. I wish-”

He was suddenly cut off by a stampede of little booted feet as Fíli and Kíli, clad what looked like every article of clothing they owned, charged back into the kitchen. Bilbo beamed down at them for a moment, then hurried to retrieve his hats and mittens from the bedroom. Though the little Dwarflings were particularly happy about having to wear the mittens, they bore it for the chance to go outside, and were soon shoulder deep in the snow, pushing their way through drifts with the aid of two of the smallest shovels Bilbo could find in his storage room.

This taken care of, Bilbo made his way back to the kitchen, shivering slightly as he stoked the fire. “It’s freezing out there,” he noted, biting his lip worriedly. “I do hope those little ones will be okay…”

“They’ll be fine,” Thorin assured him. “They Dwarves. Though they’ll probably be tired out in an hour or so.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t think it’d take that long.”

“Never underestimate a Dwarf.”

The Hobbit glanced over his shoulder for a moment. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he eventually replied, retaking his spot in front of Thorin. They sat in amicable silence for a few minutes, Bilbo staring out the kitchen window absentmindedly until Thorin spoke again.

“Bilbo, may I… Well, please do not take this the wrong way, but may I touch you?”

The Hobbit’s head snapped to face Thorin so fast that his neck cracked painfully. “I- Excuse me? Touch what, may I ask?”

“I…I can’t see with my eyes, so my hands often have to do the seeing for me.” The Dwarf shrugged, slouching in his chair as he stared awkwardly at the tabletop, a slight flush creeping onto his ears and cheeks. “I have imposed on you for two days now, and I don’t even know what you look like.”

Bilbo thought about this for a moment. It made sense, he supposed; he’d probably want to know what his host looked like as well if he was in Thorin’s place, and he trusted the Dwarf (for whatever reason). This didn’t stop the niggling voice in the back of his mind, whispering about insecurities, about chubby cheeks and uneven eyes, stupid little irrelevancies that Bilbo knew he needn’t worry over…

“Alright,” he finally agreed, his voice a low murmur that carried far too well in the echoing kitchen. He lightened up slightly when he saw Thorin’s smile and moved to the seat beside the Dwarf, stubbornly controlling his breathing as he guided his guest’s hand to his (admittedly pink by this point) cheek. Thorin’s hands were warm and felt competent, his fingers impossibly gentle as they ghosted over Bilbo’s features, mapping his eyebrows, his nose, his lips. The Hobbit couldn’t suppress his shudder when Thorin moved to his ears.

“So, they are pointy,” the Dwarf remarked, and the tension was abruptly broken, the strangely expectant atmosphere falling away as Bilbo snorted loudly.

“That they are,” he replied sardonically, though his attitude was quickly curbed when Thorin’s fingers drifted down to his chin and jawline, then to the sensitive skin of his throat. Coughing pointedly, Bilbo caught Thorin’s wrist. “So, do I live up to expectations?”

Apparently taking the hint, Thorin withdrew his hand and smiled almost wistfully. “Yes, of course. You could be a one-eyed troll for all I care, after everything you’ve done for- Not that you look anything like a one-eyed troll!” he backpedaled hastily at Bilbo’s noise of outrage. “You’re very, um…not…you don’t look like a troll at all, you’re very…soft.”

Bilbo stared at the Dwarf in complete disbelief. “I’m soft,” he repeated, and Thorin nodded hesitantly, as if he was expecting the Hobbit to explode at any second. “Well, I suppose that’s better than a one-eyed troll,” he muttered, retreating to the other side of the table to start chopping vegetables for the soup he was planning for that evening. Silence settled over the pair, though it wasn’t quite as comfortable as before.

“Thank you, Master Baggins,” Thorin eventually murmured, and something in his tone prompted Bilbo to lower his knife. “I sometimes have trouble concerning…concerning my sight, so it’s nice to have, erm, something to imagine, that isn’t… Oh, by Mahal’s beard…” The Dwarf growled, apparently irritated by the lack of satisfactory words to describe his feelings. Bilbo tilted his head slightly, a bemused smile curling his lips.

“I’m not sure I understand,” he prompted gently when Thorin fell into a brooding silence.

“The last thing I saw before being blinded was my people being slaughtered,” Thorin eventually managed, his voice a dull intonation most unlike his usual, melodious baritone. Bilbo’s smile dropped away immediately. “I remember fire and blood as a dragon destroyed my home and tore my people – my friends – to shreds before my eyes. I need not close my eyes to see my grandfather’s severed head bouncing towards my feet, or the burnt bodies of the people of Dale, men, women, and children reduced to ash as we watched helplessly. I can’t remember my home now; I see only gore and dragonfire.” He drew a shaky breath. “I have never seen my new home, my people, or my nephews. I used to-” The words caught in Thorin’s throat, and Bilbo reached out, his hand falling back to the table as the Dwarf’s throat unclenched.

“I used to tell Frerin that I wished I had died with my people, with my brothers and sisters. I was trapped in eternal night, reliving my worst hours, crippled and powerless, a useless prince doomed to impose on friends and family as I wasted away in darkness.”

Bilbo clamped a hand over his mouth as a quiet whimper welled from his chest. He could all but see the fiery memories swimming in the Dwarf’s crystalline eyes, the brilliant blue clouded with hopeless sorrow. Then Thorin blinked, and his eyes cleared, a hard-won resilience beating back the darkness.

“Do not despair for that which is lost, Bilbo. I may never live a day without seeing the death of my kin, but I have found comfort. In warm stone and in living earth I have found beauty. In the heartbeats of those I love I have found a cause not to die for, but to live for.”

Thorin fell silent, and Bilbo swallowed thickly, his breathing too loud in the sudden quiet. A shuddering exhale passed his lips, his eyes sliding closed as he fought to regain his composure.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” he whispered, circling the table to kneel in front of the Dwarf. Resolutely ignoring his shaking voice, he took the Dwarf’s hands in his own, brows furrowing with determination. “I will extinguish that dragonfire. You _will_ see beauty and happiness and hope again, I swear it.” Vehemence laced through Bilbo’s voice, jaw clenching as he battled with emotions he was not prepared to deal with that morning.

Thorin didn’t speak, but his big hands tightened ever so slightly around the Hobbit’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Well, that was...dramatic. *mighty shrug*
> 
> But anyway, thank you so much again to everyone who has left kudos and comments! I love hearing from you guys~
> 
> Now time for some shameless self promotion; I have another Hobbit fic I just started, so I'll be alternating updating this story and that one. So if you want double the Bagginshield (and a modern AU at that) go check out [Angels We Have Heard!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4426433/chapters/10057346)))


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? Do I smell a plot in the distance? ((Well, very far in the distance...))
> 
> This is honestly sort of a filler to get things moving a little faster, though there is a special surprise at the end...  
> o wo

The days passed quickly as Bilbo and his guests settled into a comfortable routine. Mornings were reserved for Fíli and Kíli’s lessons, as Bilbo refused to sit quietly and let the little Dwarflings squander away their days without furthering their education. Though the brothers weren’t at all pleased initially about being made to sit for an hour or two and listen to lectures, Bilbo could always see through their bored façade; they both soaked up information like Dwarf-shaped sponges, and he did his best to keep the lessons interesting enough to retain their attention. They particularly enjoyed learning about ancient battles and eventually even managed to sit through an hour on Elvish history (after Bilbo managed to convince Thorin, perhaps somewhat forcefully, that quarrels between Dwarves and Elves had absolutely nothing to do with his nephews’ education).

Afternoons were usually spent outside, either chasing the Dwarflings around to burn off their excess energy or shoveling snow. It seemed to Bilbo that a new sheet of the stuff fell every night, and the front walk constantly needed sweeping. Thankfully, the large storms had subsided for the most part, so once Kíli’s cough had cleared up, the Dwarflings could often be found running around with packs of older fauntlings as they explored the snow-covered hillocks of the snowbound Shire. Older Hobbits, who often complained of aching joins anyway, tended to stay inside during the winter, but, just like during any other season, young Hobbits simply couldn’t lounge around indoors all day. Nature was nature, no matter how snowy, and fauntlings, in Bilbo’s opinion, were as much a part of nature as any tree or flowering plant.

Within a fortnight, as per Shire usual, gossip began to spread concerning Bilbo and his Dwarven guests. Most of it was benign, though some ventured into the bizarre; apparently, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had begun insisting that Bilbo had, in fact, been turned into a Dwarf himself and was therefore unfit to live in Bag End. Fíli and Kíli often came back to after an afternoon of play with fantastic rumors stretched further still by fauntlings who had overheard their parents discussing the odd happenings up on the Hill.

Stranger still to Bilbo was his steadily developing relationship with Thorin. The pair spent hours after the younglings had gone to bed discussing everything from Middle Earth history to the everyday events of the Shire, which, much to Bilbo’s perplexed amusement, fascinated Thorin to no end. The Dwarf loved hearing about the rolling green hills and bubbling brooks of the Shire, and Bilbo, constantly heedful of his tearful oath, chattered happily on and on, glad that his vivid description skills were finally being put to good use.

“You should write a book,” Thorin remarked around the stem of his pipe one evening. Bilbo responded with a loud snort and immediately began to cough.

“A book?” he eventually managed, gulping tea to sooth his throat. “Who would want to read about a boring old place like the Shire?”

“I would.” The Dwarf’s reply was quiet and earnest, and Bilbo sobered, though the twinge of pity that rose in his gut was quickly stamped out by a wave of affection.

“Well, you don’t need a book. You have someone who lives in that boring old place to tell you all about it,” he reminded Thorin. “Besides, if I wasn’t talking, you wouldn’t be able to laugh when I pronounce one of your confounded Khudzul words wrong.”

“Khuzdul,” Thorin corrected.

“Oh, hush.”

Bilbo also found himself learning about Dwarven culture, as much by watching Thorin’s interactions with his nephews as through outright conversation. For example, he discovered that Dwarves age much slower than other mortals, reaching their peak at around seventy years old, and that Thorin was one hundred and twenty-two, nearly as old as Old Took and yet just beginning the golden years of his life. It was quite remarkable for a mortal people, in Bilbo’s humble opinion.

All in all, Bilbo was entirely content with his new living situation. He occasionally thought about Thorin leaving, though he didn’t dwell on it for long. The Dwarf had said that his sister would send a raven when it was safe for Thorin to return home, but he hadn’t given any indication of how long that might be. Considering Dwarves’ exaggerated lifespans, it could be thirty years, or Thorin could be moving away in a week; Bilbo had no way to know and thoroughly dreaded bringing it up to the one person that might have some idea. The last thing he wanted to do was prompt Thorin to leave before he absolutely had to.

As it were, no ravens turned up as the days wore on. During afternoon tea around a month after Thorin arrived, however, a letter did appear in front of Bilbo’s door, written on thick, important-looking parchment. He scanned it quickly, his brow furrowing deeper with every word.

“Thorin?” He dodged Fíli and Kíli and they charged out the door, then walked slowly to the kitchen, his eyes still fixed on the paper in his hands.

“Mmm?”

“I’ve been invited to Brandy Hall this evening,” Bilbo explained, frowning at the letter once more before folding it carefully and setting it on the mantelpiece. Thorin turned towards the Hobbit’s voice, his head tilted slightly.

“Why? Did something happen?” The Dwarf’s voice was laced with quiet concern, which Bilbo dismissed with a huff.

“Oh, I doubt it. They probably just want me over for dinner,” he scoffed. “Brandybucks are always so…theatrical. I don’t know why they can’t just write everything out plainly like the rest of us.”

“Should…should we…?” Thorin gestured at himself, apparently supremely uncomfortable with the thought of being dragged to a Hobbit dinner party. Bilbo smiled.

“No, you and the boys can stay here. I trust you’ll take care of the place? I’m apparently supposed to be there at six, so I’ll make an early dinner, and I should be home before nine. Maybe ten, depending.”

Thorin nodded slowly at this, secretly relieved. Loud evenings with overly-dramatic Hobbits were definitely not his cup of tea. Still, he was uneasy when the time came for Bilbo to leave.

“Are you sure you don’t want me walk you there, at least?” he grumbled as Bilbo trundled to the door; he was dressed for the weather, but Thorin just wasn’t used to the thought of bare feet treading comfortably over snow and ice.

“I’ll be fine, Thorin. Besides, you wouldn’t be able to get home once you were there. Even some Hobbits get lost during the winter when the paths aren’t cleared- Wait, what? What did I say?” Bilbo squinted, his hands coming to rest on his hips as Thorin’s previously pursed lips relaxed into a wide smile.

“Home?”

The Hobbit flushed immediately. “Oh, you know what I meant, Thorin Oakenshield,” he muttered as he bustled out the door and slammed it shut behind him. It was a beautiful evening for a walk; though it wasn’t quite dark, the full moon hung low in the sky, casting more than enough light for a Hobbit to find his way in the glittering snow. He hummed a little tune as he started on his way, a customary visiting gift tucked into his shoulder-bag.

Thorin, meanwhile, was still hung up on the Hobbit’s word choice. There was no denying that Bag End felt like home, even after so short a time; Thorin contributed that solely to Bilbo, who spared no expense to keep his visitors happy and well looked after. He was helpful and kind and great with the younglings…Thorin couldn’t help but get attached to the little Hobbit.

His stint at Bag End had also allowed Thorin to get closer to his nephews, for which he was extremely grateful. Though he had had a hand in Fíli and Kíli’s rearing since they were born, he was never their primary caretaker. Now, however, Thorin wasn’t sure how he had survived without the pair of troublemakers constantly getting under his feet. They were a total joy, and he considered himself blessed to have watched (well, felt) them grow.

Just as Thorin flopped into his now familiar armchair by the fire, Fíli and Kíli forced him to reconsider these touching thoughts by throwing themselves onto his lap and demanding their uncle tell them a story. Tales of Erebor before the dragon had become a huge favorite of both the Dwarflings and Bilbo, and Thorin found that as he spoke of his long lost home, he remembered more and more of his life before blood and dragonfire had blocked all else. The broken bodies of his friends and family burned on the back of his eyelids were slowly replaced by images of golden splendor unmarred by tragedy and death. He spoke of his grandfather’s magnificent throne room and could finally see it once again, shimmering with jewels and precious metals, the walls hung with heavy tapestries woven with gold and murals sewn into the finest satins and silks. He sometimes stumbled on painful memories but was learning to separate the good from the bad and come to terms with his losses. For the first time since he lost his sight, he was truly dealing with his grief, and he knew exactly who he had to thank.

By the time Bilbo returned to Bag End, Fíli and Kíli were both asleep and Thorin was dozing in front of the fire. He jolted awake when the front door clicked closed, but quickly relaxed and yawned widely.

“So, how was-”

“Shhh!” Bilbo immediately admonished, causing Thorin to turn towards his voice with a hilariously disgruntled expression stamped on his features. Bilbo bit back his giggle. “Come here, but stay quiet,” he whispered.

Thorin did as he was told, his bare feet all but silent as he crept towards the door. He wasn’t sure whether to be excited or alarmed by Bilbo’s strange behavior, eventually settling on confused when the Hobbit grabbed his wrist and guided his hand to something that felt suspiciously like someone’s head. Downy curls slipped beneath his gentle fingers, which trailed down to tiny, pointed ears, chubby cheeks, a little button nose…

“You had a baby?” the Dwarf hissed between his teeth, rather alarmed.

“ _What_? No, of course I didn’t have a baby, you idiot Dwarf!” Bilbo carefully adjusted the dark-haired fauntling fast asleep on his hip, remembering to keep his voice down as he continued. “This is…well, this is technically my cousin, though he’s taken to calling me uncle. His name is Frodo, and I…I think I’ve just adopted him.”

Thorin stood in stunned silence for a moment. “You went to dinner and adopted a baby.”

“He’s not a baby, he’s nearly four years old,” Bilbo corrected, gazing down at the child drooling on his shirt. “His parents both died a year or two ago, and he’s been living in Brandy Hall… I think they wanted me to come knowing that I wouldn’t be able to leave those big blue eyes behind. They had the adoption papers ready, and the Thain was there to sign.” As hard as he tried, Bilbo couldn’t seem to get angry about this rather ridiculous turn of events. The little fauntling was absolutely adorable and had melted his heart immediately. “I’ve always had a soft spot for children…”

Now positively beaming, Thorin settled his weight over one hip and crossed his arms. “Well, I believe congratulations are in order,” he said teasingly, moving further into the hall so Bilbo could wriggle out of his coat. Frodo began to wake during this process, so Bilbo plopped him down on his woolly feet.

“Uncle Bilbo?” The child’s voice sounded to Thorin like a tinkling bell, high and sweet and curious. “Who is that?”

“That, Frodo, is Thorin. He’s staying here in Bag End with us,” Bilbo responded, smiling as the wee Hobbit toddled drowsily over to inspect the Dwarf’s large hands. He had to suppress a delighted squeak when Frodo took one of Thorin’s fingers in his pudgy hand and shook it, bowing with a wobble as his sleepy knees threatened to give out.

“Good evening, Uncle Thorin,” the charming little fauntling yawned.

“I think I’m love,” the Dwarf murmured as Bilbo swept Frodo back onto his hip just in time for the faunt to drift off again. He took a deep, calming breath, but his smile refused to fade as his eyes flicked from Thorin to his new nephew and back.

“Me too,” he sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Well, there we go! :D Nothing like a wee fauntling to get the plot ball rolling. :D
> 
> As always, thank you thank you thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments so far! You all keep me writing~))


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! :D I will begin with a huge thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments! I try to respond to most of them, though I think I'm getting a little behind... @ w@
> 
> Anyway, there's the next (embarrassingly short) bit. It's honestly mostly a filler chapter (again), with some cuteness and another wee surprise at the end. The real adventure will begin soon! 
> 
> Enoy~!

It was snowing again when Bilbo woke the next morning. Or rather, when he was woken. As it turned out, small Hobbits apparently awoke before large ones, so Bilbo was roused perhaps a little earlier than he would have liked by a bright-eyed, well-rested Frodo.

“Good morning, Uncle Bilbo!” The fauntling beamed down at his new guardian, his dark curls all mussed with sleep. Bilbo couldn’t help but smile as he stretched and yawned.

“Good morning, my lad,” he returned contentedly, inwardly fighting to control the welling of emotion that suddenly threatened to engulf him. He could hardly believe that barely a month ago he had been completely satisfied with living alone, sitting bored in front of the fire for hours letting the world pass him by. That felt like another lifetime now, a dream from which he had finally woken.

“Is it time for breakfast?” Frodo asked, climbing over Bilbo’s legs to hop onto the floor.

“I do believe it is!” said Bilbo, following in his nephew’s footsteps as the little Hobbit sped into the kitchen.

In all honestly, Bilbo was quite surprised the wee fellow was so content, considering all the recent changes in his life. Though he had been a bit too young to remember his parents clearly, he had been living at Brandy Hall for several years without, it seemed, getting very attached to the place. Hobbits weren’t fond of change, as a rule, so Frodo’s willingness to accept such drastic changes without batting an eyelash was rather remarkable, in Bilbo’s humble opinion. Of course, remarkable or not, all Hobbits needed breakfast, so Bilbo set right to work frying up some eggs and sausage, entirely aware of the ramifications of his actions.

Just as he had suspected, the smell of breakfast had woken Fíli and Kíli, who came charging into the kitchen, tiny feet pattering on the wooden parlor floors, only to stop dead when they saw Frodo loitering around Bilbo’s feet. The fauntling noticed the little Dwarves a few seconds later, and latched onto his uncle’s leg for a moment before apparently realizing that Fíli and Kíli weren’t causing any immediate danger. With all the inquisitive confidence usually associated with young Hobbits, Frodo marched up to the two Dwarflings, who seemed to be hovering between confusion and delight. Bilbo had to cover his mouth with a hand to muffle his giggles as the younglings sized each other up; Fíli and Kíli recovered from their shock fairly quickly, both breaking into wide grins after a minute or two.

“Fíli-”

“-and Kíli-”

“-at your service,” they finished in concert, bowing at the waist in what would have been a very grand gesture if they were but a little bigger. Frodo, mightily charmed by the pair, mimicked the motion with a flourish.

“Frodo Baggins at yours!”

With that, the three shot off, breakfast all but forgotten as they immediately began chattering about…well, Aulë only knew. Bilbo gazed fondly after them for a moment, then turned back to his cooking. Before long, however, another set of heavy footsteps and a sleepy groan announced Thorin’s presence in the kitchen. “Breakfast smells wonderful,” the Dwarf commented.

“Why thank you.” Bilbo glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Thorin drag his fingers through his unbraided hair, pushing it away from his face in a practiced motion that would have been entirely too majestic, quite frankly, if he hadn’t gotten one of his rings caught up in the sleep-tangled mane. Bilbo rolled his eyes.

“I own brushes, you know,” he mentioned dryly, watching with vague amusement as the Dwarf somehow managed to get a lock of hair twisted all the way around the intricate ring.

“Or you could help, you know,” Thorin returned, a quiet noise that Bilbo would definitely categorize as a whine slipping passed his lips.

“Oh, you are _so_ hopeless.” Bilbo let the Dwarf struggle for a few more seconds, then took pity on his hair, at least, and took the eggs off the fire. “Stand still, let me just… Well, take the thing off, there you go-” Several minutes of grumbling and hair pulling later, Bilbo stepped back, the liberated ring between his fingers. “Aha! There.” He pushed the bauble back into Thorin’s hand, his fingers lingering perhaps a moment longer than was necessary.

“Now please, Thorin Oakenshield, leave your hair alone until you run a brush through it!” Bilbo admonished. “You’d think someone who can feel the world around them through their feet would be able to untangle their own hair.” His tone was teasing, and Thorin just shrugged, smiling.

“I was never good with hair,” he admitted freely, if a little ruefully. “But at least mine’s long enough to braid.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, lips quirking upwards as he recognized the challenge in Thorin’s voice. “My hair is plenty long enough to braid, thank you. Maybe not in big, thick plaits like you could, but sometimes a little delicacy is in order. Besides, you barely know what my hair looks like.”

The Dwarf chuckled at this, but before he could respond, Fíli, Kíli, and Frodo barged back to the kitchen, all panting slightly and ready for breakfast, which Bilbo promptly provided. Silence fell almost instantaneously as the three younglings tucked into the food with gusto, occasionally thanking Bilbo or commenting on the meal before stuffing their mouths once again.

“Now, slow down, you three,” Bilbo chided. “You’re going to get stomachaches, and I’ll have to make you all some herbal tea.”

“Oh, not that again,” Kíli moaned, sending Fíli into a fit of giggles that only cleared up when Frodo inquired as to what had happened. Thrilled to have an audience for once, Fíli and Kíli launched enthusiastically into a hugely dramatized tale of Kíli’s illness and subsequent treatment.

“I swore I was gonna cough up a lung, and Mr. Boggins said I had _days_ to live-”

“And he had to drink this awful potion that Mr. Bilbo cooked up, but it was like magic-”

“If that’s what magic tastes like, then I hope I never meet a wizard!”

“But why would you taste a wizard?” Frodo interjected, starting a very serious discussion as to why two Dwarflings and a young Hobbit might indeed need to taste a wizard. Though most of the conversation wasn’t exactly fit for the table, Bilbo had to bite back more than a few sniggers at some of the little ones’ ridiculous scenarios.

Just as Bilbo was beginning the dishes, with Thorin drying as always, a loud knocking sound echoed through Bag End. The younglings fell silent, Frodo grasping at Fíli’s sleeve when the noise happened again, several sharp retorts like pebbles striking glass. His brow furrowing, Bilbo motioned for Fíli, Kíli, and Frodo to stay where they were before peeking into the parlor.

“What is it?” Thorin hissed from behind him. “What can you see?”

Bilbo titled his head slightly. “It’s…it’s a big, black bird tapping on the window. A crow, maybe?”

The great bird, feathers dusted with newly-fallen snow, screeched towards the heavens, and Thorin clasped Bilbo’s shoulder. “Nay,” he breathed, voice suddenly thick with emotion. “That, my dear Bilbo, is a Raven of Erebor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((What will the raven say? What is a Raven of Erebor doing in the Blue Mountains anyway? Never fear, all these questions and more will be answered, next time on 'How Much Cuteness Can I Fit Into A Story And Still Label It Angst'!!!
> 
> Don't worry, the angst and H/C will start soon enough. o wo))


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